A drizzly morning thirty years ago.
I rush along a path of dripping oaks
from coffeehouse to early morning class.
Across the quad (it seems so far away)
a man much older than I rakes wet leaves.
My coffee steams as I stop now to sip
and in the distance see a girl approach
the gardener, holding out a cup of tea.
He shakes his head, polite but firm, no thanks.
The mist and space between us cloak the two,
a snow globe or a silent movie scene.
Again the girl entreats and lifts the cup.
It’s almost eight, I may be late for class,
but I remain. How will this story go?
At last the man accepts the cup, he nods,
she smiles, nothing left for them to say.
Who gave a gift to whom that winter day?
The Kingdom of Enough 